Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

As soon as the words are out, I feel a bit stupid. But, even so, I don’t want to take them back. I mean them. I’ve only had the teeniest taste of being famous. How can I give it up?

Luke is looking at me, an odd expression on his face.

“Are you sure about that?” he says at last.

This is the final straw. How can he even ask that?

“I want it more than anything!” I cry out. “You know what my dream is? To be standing on the red carpet in my own right! Not shuffled along like a second-class citizen, just filling up the space … but there as me. Becky.”

“I didn’t realize it was so important to you,” says Luke in a toneless way, which infuriates me.

“Well, it is. It’s always been my dream.”

“No, it hasn’t!” Luke gives a short laugh. “Are you trying to pretend this is the fulfillment of a childhood ambition?”

“Well …” I flounder briefly. “OK … maybe it’s a new dream. Does it matter? The point is, if you respected me, Luke, you wouldn’t drag us all out to L.A., then drag us back to London without any warning. I know you’re the big-shot Luke Brandon, but I have a career too! I’m my own person! I’m not only ‘Mrs. Brandon’! Or would you like me to turn into some corporate wifey wifey? Maybe that’s what you secretly wanted all along! I’ll go and learn how to make profiteroles, shall I?”

I break off, slightly shocked at myself. I didn’t mean to say all that; it just came out. I can tell I’ve hurt Luke by the way his eyes are flickering. I want to say, Sorry, I didn’t mean it, and give him a hug—but that wouldn’t feel quite right either.

The truth is, I meant some of it. I’m just not sure which bit.

For a while there’s silence in the kitchen. Neither of us is looking at the other, and the only sound is coming from the sprinklers in the garden outside.

“I’m not dragging anyone anywhere,” Luke says at last, his voice tight. “This is a marriage, and we do things by agreement. And if after all these years together you think I don’t respect you, then—” He breaks off and shakes his head. “Look, Becky, if you really feel that your career path lies in L.A. and can’t be anywhere else, then fine. We’ll work it out. I want you to have what makes you happy. Whatever that might be.”

Everything he’s saying is positive and supportive. I should feel pleased. But his face is so distant, it unnerves me. Usually my intuition tells me exactly what Luke is thinking—but right now I’m not at all sure.

“Luke …” To my horror, my voice is a bit wobbly. “It’s not that I don’t want us to be together. I just— I need—”

“It’s fine.” He cuts me off. “I get it, Becky. I have to make some calls.”

Without giving me another glance, he picks up his sandwich and strides out of the kitchen, his steps resounding down the corridor. Slowly, I stir my grain soup, feeling a slight shock. One minute we were talking normally, and the next we were … what? I don’t even know how things have been left.

I don’t see Luke for the rest of the evening. He’s talking on the phone in his office and I don’t want to disturb him, so I sit in the kitchen flicking through TV channels, my head full of dark, circular thoughts. This is the biggest chance of my life. Luke should be excited. I mean, Aran is more excited than he is. How can that be right? And anyway, why did he give me that look? Just because he thinks fame is overrated.

And the Treasury. The Treasury. Who would choose the Treasury over Hollywood? Is he insane? I’ve been to the Treasury, and, believe me, it has nothing to recommend it. I bet if you asked all the Treasury officials, Would you rather be in Hollywood? they’d all march out in an instant.

And why did he have to make me feel guilty? I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I do. I don’t even know why I feel guilty. I’ve done nothing wrong except become the celebrity of the moment, and I want to take advantage of that. If Luke can’t see that, then maybe he shouldn’t work in the media. He should be excited.

I’m just summoning up my name on Google for the billionth time when the door opens and in walk Dad and Tarkie. No, in lurch Dad and Tarkie. They’re arm in arm, and Dad bumps into the table and Tarkie bursts out laughing, and then he trips up on a chair.

I goggle at them in astonishment. They’re drunk? My father and Tarquin have gone out and got drunk? Why didn’t Suze stop them?

“Where’s Suze?” I demand. “Dad, what happened today? Did you meet Brent?”

“I have no idea where my wife is,” says Tarkie, talking with elaborate carefulness. “I have my friends and that is all I need.” He claps Dad on the back. “Your father is a very, very, very …” He seems to run out of steam for a moment. “Very interesting man,” he resumes. “Wise. He understands. Nobody else understands.”